


Disconnecting All the Calls

by ephemeraltea (temporarily_obsessed)



Series: Tin Roofs [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 15:29:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporarily_obsessed/pseuds/ephemeraltea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim is an orphan at ten; he’s in foster care until almost twelve, and then there’s Selina.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disconnecting All the Calls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [defcontwo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo/gifts).



> Title taken from the lyrics of Rihanna's "Disturbia"; previously "Do the Shuffle."
> 
> Major thanks defcontwo for her help in first inspiring this with a meme she did, then listening to ideas, and then helping me. Just. Wow. Thank you.

**  
**Tim is ten when his parents die in Haiti, and at first nothing significantly changes in his life (because they weren’t exactly _there_ to start with). However, after a little less than a month, everything changes. Without explanation, or, okay, an explanation that satisfies Tim, he’s moved to a mass-care facility.

It’s there that Tim learns more than anything nights stalking Batman and Robin (before Robin left for New York and Nightwing) could ever teach him. He learns about “keeping your mouth shut” and “nobody gives a fuck, rich boy” and “that’s not even a bruise, what are you whining for.” He gets an intensive course on nodding when he means no, hiding in plain sight, keeping out of the way, and getting beat up even if he does.

It’s probably because Tim’s so small, but also because he used to have money. He learns about how that makes him a target almost as much as ignorance does. And since not knowing things has always rubbed him the wrong way anyways, Tim makes a concerted effort to never not have at least one possible answer. Three likely possibilities are preferable. The right one is best, but Tim also learns that sometimes there isn’t a single right answer.

Tim learns to place things on a gradient. The world isn’t black and white.

He’s a few months shy of twelve when a new minder gets hired and _looks_ at Tim. Tim’s not stupid, and he’s not even very good at pretending to be, so that kind of look is not only familiar to Tim, but clear in intent and dangerous. He knows that no one would listen should the minder touch Tim (and he will- again, Tim isn’t stupid and the guy is being obvious); he’s not going to wait to become another unwritten statistic. Tim leaves.

He doesn’t take a lot with him, and Tim didn’t have much to begin with: the picture from the circus, a postcard from his parents when they were in the Belgium, a spare set of clothes, and a disposable camera. The camera is an indulgence, he knows, but it’s a comfort far more than anything else.

There are a lot more places to hide on the streets than there were in the facility. Tim learns as many of them as he can. It’s a lot harder to get food, but Tim’s nothing if not a learner, and he’s very good at not taking more than he needs (because taking more is the kind of behavior that _gets you caught_ ), so he scrapes by.

He sees Batman sometimes. He only takes one picture of him- the pictures left are precious and Batman isn’t his hero anymore.

 

* * *

Tim’s pretty sure the reason he’s survived as long as he has is because he keeps to himself. He doesn’t shack up with others if he can help it, he doesn’t take group jobs or work cons, and certainly doesn’t break into homes. He lives on being a ghost and slipping wallets. Up until now, he’s never pawned anything besides twice with tires- it’s better, cleaner to take cash than try to sell something.

But today he’s a little desperate. Duct tape isn’t enough for his shoes anymore, and even if it wasn’t winter, bare feet on the street is asking for infection. Tim’s seen some kids who thought they could make it without shoes, and he wishes he never had because it was horrifying. It reminds him of pictures he saw, _before_ , of World War I and trench foot.

It’s a necklace, a pretty, new one in still in the velvety box- Tim went for a wallet and got it instead. And it’s probably not the most expensive or nicest one; in fact, he’s fairly certain his mother would have considered cheap and trashy. But if he can pawn it, Tim will be able to afford new shoes and food for a little while. Maybe even a jacket.

Even with this pawn shop’s reputation ( _We’ll ask no questions, you’ll tell no lies_ ), Tim can’t quite make himself go inside. It can go wrong, so easily, and this is _so dangerous_.

“Going in, kitten?” an amused voice asks from behind him. Tim doesn’t jolt (sign of weakness, good way to get jumped), but he does stiffen. He turns deliberately. And-

_It’s Catwoman._

She’s wearing- well, not the catsuit, that’s for sure. A tight blue turtleneck shirt under a nice cardigan and dark jeans. She’s got a funny sort of smirk on her face, one that looks almost a little sad.

“C-Catwoman,” Tim says, and he really hates that he stutters and squeaks. “Er. Miss Kyle?”

The smile doesn’t go away, but it does get a little less sad and little more sharp. Tim thinks he’d like to learn to smile like that- like if anyone got close, they’d get sliced up.

“Catwoman? What makes you say that, kitten?”

“Well, the kitten thing for one,” and Tim should really shut up, “but mostly because you are. Catwoman. Oh my god.”

Tim would really like to say it goes uphill from there, but no.

(But yes. It does.)

 

* * *

“Is there even space?” Tim says, eying the every surface covered by cats, or, barring them, their hair. Selina shrugs eloquently.

“Always room for another stray,” she says, and something her nonchalance puts Tim at ease. Well, closer to ease, anyway. “Besides, coming from you?”

“What about me?” Tim says, and he thought it would sound defensive, but it just comes out small.

The woman gives him an once-over. “Kitten, you’re tinier than the Boy Wonder was when he started out. Hell, I think you weigh less than some of my cats. There’s room.”

Tim wants to argue that. He really does- he just doesn’t know if that’s true or not. He hasn’t exactly been measuring his height and weight over the past almost-year on the streets. Actually, he doesn’t even remember the last time he did that even when he was at the center.

He is potentially as small as a nine-year-old Dick Grayson at twelve and half. _How humiliating._ And yet not entirely unexpected- Tim had always been little. _Still._

So Tim just settles for looking at the floor- _which is covered in cat hair, okay_ \- and nods a little. Selina sighs, runs a hand through her hair, and sets him up on the couch. In two weeks, she buys a bed for him and sets it up in the bedroom she was using for trinkets, before. A month after that, Selina stops letting him pretend he might still leave. The next day, she begins to refine what he learned on the street and what little he learned from beginner’s martial arts from _before_. She calls it self-defense, but they both know better.

And for his thirteenth birthday, he gets a catsuit.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Catlad-AU (among other things), in case you didn't catch that, and it's only the beginning, my friends.


End file.
